First things first. Wifey gets to approve the list. If that isn’t happening, I am not inviting anyone for a dinner. I value my sanity. If you agree to this condition, I can start thinking about throwing a dinner party; if you don’t, I’d catch on my sleep.

After the approval of my signing officer, I present my list to you, in the order I’d like to have them seated (clockwise.)

And yet, the actual seating order could be vastly different from what you see here. I expect Mrs. Chaddha, Mr. Goyal, and Mom to revolt, with Mom in the lead.

“Puttar,(Son)” she’d quip while critically examine Miley’s twerking derriere, “is this a real girl or a battery-operated doll? How can you put this thing between your Mother and Obama ji?” Then she’d get up from her seat, yell and order the maid to move her chair between Obama’s and Dali’s.

Mr. Goyal, our neighbor who believes that nobody knows anything except him, would ape Mom’s complaining attitude in his own way. “You don’t know anything,” he would say, “let me tell you. I’ve known Barack Obama since he wore his purple diapers. In fact, I changed his diapers a couple of times, bet that ingrate doesn’t remember any of it. What is worse is that he doesn’t know what he must do to tackle the ISIS-crISIS. Let me sit next to him and tell him.”

I am sure that Mrs. Chaddha, our next-floor neighbor, would be smitten by Dali’s mustaches because they would remind her of Mr. Chaddha’s rather copious facial fungi. She’d drag her chair between Dali’s and Agatha Christie’s, push Ms. Christie away, almost toppling her over, and moon over Salvador Dali, until Dali’s mustache tickled her nostril, made her sneeze, and brought her back to her senses. I am sure that before we finished the second course, Mrs. Chaddha would’ve got him to part with at least three of his surrealist paintings.

All this ruckus will prove too much for Miley’s short attention-span and she’ll twerk out of the party. Obama would’ve got Mr. Goyal’s monolog translated and he would get up, purse his lips in his characteristic manner and say, “Make no mistake. They’ll pay for it,” and sit down again. Salvador Dali would find that his pointy mustaches had lost their spunk and were now lolling down the sides of his mouth. And Ms. Christie would’ve gotten the idea for her next dinner mystery with Ms. Marple as the heroine.

The final seating arrangement thus would be a lot different from what we started out with, but as wifey says (and she’s learned it from The Comedy Superstars on Sab TV,) “Asli Maza to sabke saath aata hai” (Real fun starts when everyone gets together!)

After the guests leave, we’d have the typical Indian conversation, once again with Mom steering its course.

Ha ha. Obama must be reading QSM. As for me, I was looking for a particular post of yours that I’d glimpsed a few days ago. I got sucked into the blog and went on a reading binge. Hence the right prediction 🙂

Chitter-Chatter, Pow-wow!

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